


Walking on Furniture

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Challenge Response, Domestic Fluff, John is annoyed, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Sherlock makes up for being annoying, Strop, Suggestive Themes, Tropes, make-up sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 16:21:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1864392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a short rant about living with Sherlock's messes, but Sherlock convinces him that it's all worth it.</p><p>For Day 26 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Shut me up with a kiss</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking on Furniture

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary! This one was really last minute...

 “I can’t live like this.”

Sherlock didn’t bother glancing up from the microscope.

“No one can live like this,” John muttered, shoving a pile of papers closer to a scattering of bottles and beakers that cluttered the kitchen table. “Just once I’d like to eat in a normal kitchen, not a … bloody laboratory.”

Sherlock flicked his eyes over to John, watched him balance his coffee mug and a plate in his hands while trying to pull out a chair. His hair was damp, fresh out of the shower.

“You could try cleaning once in awhile,” John continued. “The sink, this table, your desk, anything, really.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, jotting down a note that had nothing to do with cleaning.

“And cooking… there’s a thought. How on earth did you survive all those years on your own?”

“Cafes. Toast. Cigarettes.” Sherlock replied, peering again into the microscope.

John sighed, looking around the flat. It was always him -- or Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart -- that took care of things. Sherlock’s contribution seemed to consist of hanging up towels and… there must be something else.

“Didn’t you ever learn anything practical?” John groused.

“Like I said: cafes, toast, and cigarettes.”

John glowered, then turned his attention to the newspaper.

Sherlock stole another glance at him. Something was bothering him -- not enough sleep, bad day yesterday at the clinic, he determined. Whenever John got out of sorts like this he let him rant until it was out of his system, half listening.

John looked up again. “Bills,” he added. “You might pay a little more attention to those. You owe me for this month’s rent, by the way.”

“I’ll write you a cheque.”

John drummed his fingers on the table, silent.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“The milk-- oh, never mind.”

Sherlock looked more closely at John, only to have him disappear behind the paper.

Sherlock thought for a moment. This was where he was supposed to ask if everything was alright. He cleared his throat in preparation. “Everything alright?”

John answered by giving the paper a vigorous shake. “It’s fine.” Another snap of the pages. Then silence.

This time Sherlock sighed. “What is it?”

John folded the paper, placed it on the table, then placed his hands on the table, and folded them.

“If you must know, it’s…this.” He waved his hands at the table, the microscope, the Petri dishes. “It’s the milk left out, it’s the papers, and the body parts in the fridge--” he stopped, rubbed his forehead, “It’s just… a lot of this.” He made wide circles with his hands, indicating the entirety of the space. “Just once, it’d be nice to come home to a clean flat.”

By this point, Sherlock had straightened up and was paying attention. “John--”

“Just once,” John continued, talking over him, “it’d be lovely to, I don’t know, open a cupboard and not find odd bits of lab equipment. To not trip over boxes. To not have deadly chemicals in the kitchen.”

“In my defense--”

John was on a roll now and ignored Sherlock’s protest. “It’d be _really_ great if someone would stop borrowing my laptop and leaving it where I can’t find it. Or maybe let a person dust once in awhile, or not eat all the biscuits, or --”

Suddenly, John was cut off mid-sentence as Sherlock leaned across the table and silenced him with a swift kiss, one intended as an admission of guilt, an apology, a thank you, an end of discussion. Sherlock drew back, but lingered for a moment as he noticed the smoothness of John’s clean shaven skin, the scent of soap and lather, the long lashes. His eyes drifted back to John’s mouth, his right hand finding it’s way behind John’s neck, pulling him in closer, and he tilted his head for a better angle, maybe just one more apology was necessary…

John momentarily forgot his next point of contention. He could feel the edge of the table digging into his ribs… the table… that was another thing. “And not scratch the table…” he managed to murmur.

Sherlock kissed him again, deeper. John’s hands migrated to Sherlock’s hair, fingers anchoring into the curls. Dammit, what were the other things? “And not walk on the furniture…”

Sherlock pulled back ever so slightly. “Sorry,” he said simply, his lips grazing against John’s. “I must be hell to live with.”

“You are,” John breathed, losing his fire, but growing quite warm elsewhere.

“But I seem to recall,” Sherlock added, working his way across John’s jawline, “you leaving clothes all over the floor the other night, and being rather rough on the sofa…”

John closed his eyes. That had been a stellar night…. He smiled in spite of himself, knew Sherlock could feel the corners of his mouth turn up, felt Sherlock’s fingertips playing over his lips, triumphant, teasing. This is why he put up with it all, the mess, the madness…

“I just made the bed,” John dropped into Sherlock’s ear as they rose from their chairs in sync, arms twining around waists, hips bumping against the edge of the table.

“Sheets all… tight and smooth?” Sherlock asked, moving his mouth back to cover John’s, his hands sliding down low on John’s back.

“Mmm… I suppose we should just go,” John’s tongue slipped past Sherlock’s, “mess it up properly.”

“Unless you’d rather,” one of Sherlock’s hands brushed across the front of John’s trousers, “scratch a table... or walk on some furniture right here..."


End file.
